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starforsharon · 4 years

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Sexy Little Me

This is how Hollywood turns a pretty Texas girl into Sharon Tate, the star.

By John Bowers for "The Saturday Evening Post"

1. Two of Sharon Tate's three pictures have been produced in Europe. Although Texas-born, Sharon spent her adolescence abroad, and much prefers London to Hollywood.

2. Sharon will be shown off to American audiences for the first time in DON’T MAKE WAVES. On the set, she reacts prettily to a compliment from co-star Tony Curtis.

3. At 6 months Sharon won Dallas’ “Miss Tiny Tot” award.

4. Portraying a Las Vegas showgirl who becomes a superstar in VALLEY OF THE DOLLS, Sharon had to wear a 10-pound jeweled headdress which “gave her a headache.”

5. This picture of Sharon and her father, Maj. Paul Tate, at a 1965 Fort MacArthur party is from a large “family events” scrapbook that Sharon dutifully keeps.

6. Relaxing on the set of YOUR TEETH IN MY NECK, Sharon listens attentively as the Polish-born Polanski explains how she can improve her performance in the next scene.

May 6, 1967 – Sharon Tate had finished her last scenes for The Vampire Killers (later to be called Your Teeth in My Neck), and had no film work for the moment. At 95 Eaton Mews West, London, she moved about in the late afternoon looking for something to do. She sat Buddah-style on the living room floor and put on fake eyelashes, one eyelash at a time. She worried that a sunlamp treatment, taken a few hours before, was going to make red cracks in her face. “Doesn’t it seem to be getting all red on the cheeks? Look close now.”

She wore a gray sweat suit and furry boots, having been to her daily gym class that afternoon. She didn’t like the gym class, but Roman Polanski, her director, had told her she must go. She frowned into a hand mirror, thinking she saw a red streak. She started to bite a fingernail, but stopped. Roman had forbidden any more fingernail biting; she had a tendency to bite them down to the nub. She went to the refrigerator, and amidst Wyborowa vodka and Carlsberg beer, brought out the makings for a salami sandwich. She would not drink a beer because it might bloat her, and Roman was taking her out for dinner.

There was no place in the apartment for her to settle back and relax now. Everything inside had a transient look, as if the tenants would only be there a short season. A complicated stereo set sat on crates; Bach on top of a stack of records, Cannonball Adderly on the bottom. There were no pictures, no pets, no cozy heat. Upstairs on the wall was a framed citation stating that Knife In The Water under the direction of Roman Polanski had been nominated for an Academy Award. As Sharon reached for a folder of still photographs from The Vampire Killers to show a male visitor, she stuck up her bottom in a way she has; as she went through the photos, she pooched out her bosom. But she did it by reflex. Her thoughts were totally on her director, who was not there. She had been in three unreleased films – 13, Don’t Make Waves and The Vampire Killers, all with different directors.

If she caught the public’s fancy in any of these pictures, she would become a movie star. And she was pleased with her work in The Vampire Killers. She was in a nude bathtub scene in it, and in a brief sequence in which she got spanked.

The phone rang; it was a strange female voice with a French accent. “Is Roman there?”

“No, I’m sorry he isn’t,” Sharon said, in her accent of the moment, which was English. “Who shall I say is calling, please?”

“Oh – I just wondered if he were in. Tell him Barbara. Thank you very much..”

The dull London afternoon turned dark, and still no Polanski. He could be cutting The Vampire Killers, or he could be tied up in London traffic or he could be sitting in a café. She took off her furry boots and put her feet into his house slippers, which rested at odd angels by a mammoth bed that cost over $600. The slippers were far too big for her. She wondered if tonight she would be thrown with people who would overwhelm her with their wit, their awesome knowledge, their self-confidence. When she was out in public with Roman, she never felt adequate enough to open her mouth. She could only talk to him alone. Her problem was that she had always been beautiful, and people were forever losing themselves in fantasy over her – electing her a beauty queen, imagining her as a wife, dreaming of a caress. Most people had fantasies. But a few people, like Polanski, took charge.

At the age of six months Sharon Tate was elected Miss Tiny Tot of Dallas, Tex. Her mother had sent in photos of the beautiful baby to contest officials. Sharon’s father was (and is) in the Regular Army, and was then stationed in Dallas. (Both her parents are natives of Houston.) As Sharon grew up, the family moved around in Army style, her father frequently absent from home. She remembers that when her father would return from an overseas tour, and she had reached a nubile age, her mother’s first command would be, “Now you, Sharon Marie, button up that night gown when you come out of your bedroom. Daddy’s home.” Her father was very strict with her as she budded through adolescence, turning thumbs down on potential boyfriends and making her stay in nights. He was very strong and knew how to take charge.

But most people continued to do things for Sharon without her lifting a finger. At 16 she was elected Miss Richland, Washington, and a short time later named Miss Autorama. At the age of 17 she was in Verona, Italy, where her father was stationed, and the prizes mounted. At Vicenza American High she was a cheerleader and baton twirler, and was chosen Homecoming Queen and Queen of the Senior Prom. The Vicenza yearbook for 1961 shows her as a very pretty, large-eyed girl, with hair somewhat darker and hips a little broader than now. She daydreamed at this time about becoming a psychiatrist and a ballerina, and had little to do with her classmates. Yet if any far-out stunts or fads were proposed, this terribly quiet girl was ready to lead the way. “If miniskirts had come in then, ” she says, “I’d have worn the shortest one.”

Today the fad among young girls in cosmopolitan circles is to use the old Anglo-Saxon words in everyday conversation, and Sharon Tate leads the way. But back in Italy at 17, she was just starting her worldly knowledge. She watched the on-location shooting of Barabbas, a film about ancient Rome, and the family scrapbook now includes still pictures of Jack Palance and Anthony Quinn in the movie costumers they wore in Italy. As she walked in Venice one day, she was spotted by the choreographer for the Pat Boone Show, which was being filmed in Italy. She next appeared very briefly in one of Boone’s TV shows, and his glossy smiling face now rests in the album with a fond inscription for Sharon.

When the Tate family moved from Italy to Southern California, Sharon decided it was time to live on her own. She was 18, and she paid a visit to Harold Gefsky, then agent for Richard Beymer, a young actor she met in Rome. “She was so young and beautiful,” Gefsky, a softly-spoken man, said in his Sunset Boulevard office, “that I didn’t know what to do with her. I think the first thing I did was take her to a puppet show.”

He also got her work because her father, in Calvinistic style, had only given her a few dollars to sink or swim. One of her first jobs was dressing up in an Irish costume and handing out Kelly-Kalani wine in Los Angeles restaurants at $25 a day. She also appeared in TV commercials for Chevy cars and Santa Fe cigars. People who knew her during this period agree on one thing. She was the most beautiful girl in the world. “Everywhere I took her she caused a sensation,” Gefsky said. “I would take her into a restaurant and the owner would pay for her meal. Photographers kept stopping her on the street. I’ve lived in Hollywood since the mid-Forties, but I’ve never seen anything like it before or since.”

But at this point no one, except perhaps Sharon, knew if she wanted to be an actress. Then one day Gefsky took her by to meet his friend Herbert Browar, who was connected with TV’s Petticoat Junction. He thought possibly Browar could fix her up with a minor role, something to tide her over. Browar took one look at her and rushed her in to see Martin Ransohoff, head of Filmways, Inc.

Ransohoff has a strand of hair combed over his bald dome. He wears loose sweaters, torn windbreakers and breeches that are baggy in the seat. He first started producing TV commercials in New York when food particles were glued onto Brand X’s plate to show the differences in detergents. He branched out into TV programs with such commercial winners as Mr. Ed, The Beverly Hillbillies and Petticoat Junction. He then tackled movies on the order of The Americanization of Emily and The Loved One, which got mixed reviews but generally made money. He founded the company in 1952 on $200, and today it operates on a budget of over $35 million. He will talk about Oswald Spengler or H. L. Mencken and then croon into his ever-present phone, “Helloooo, Bertie, baby. Where’s the action, kid?” He chews gum till his head rings, smokes two packs a day and sends everyone to the wall with his adrenaline. He can be gratuitously cruel in speaking of others – “She’s got a lunch pail for a mouth,” he said of an aging actress, “and if we take out insurance on her, it’ll have to be that she’ll die.” Then he can take his twin sons to a football game, clean up a dog’s mess in his Bel Air living room, and talk to anyone in the world who has guts enough to call him. A rich man’s son, he sold pots and pans from door to door while going to Colgate and claims the experience taught him what the public will or will not buy. He had little interest in films before he became involved in them, and his favorite actress in the old days was Deanna Durbin – who, coincidentally, was also Polanski’s favorite. Both vividly remember her pedaling a bicycle down a shady street and singing through a dimpled smile. Not everyone has had pleasant dealings with Ransohoff in Hollywood, but all agree he is a super salesman.

When he first saw Sharon Tate, he squinted his right eye and did something that was very impulsive, even for him. “Draw up a contract,” he shouted. “Get her mother. Get my lawyer. This is the girl I want!”

He had not seen a screen test, not even a still photograph. She had hardly opened her mouth. But Marty Ransohoff, like the rest of us, has his fantasies – and Sharon Tate walked into one of his fondest ones. “I have this dream,” Ransohoff said, “where I’ll discover a beautiful girl who’s a nobody and turn her into a star that everybody wants. I’ll do it like L. B. Mayer used to, only better. But once she’s successful, then I’ll loose interest. That’s how my dream goes. I don’t give two cents now for Tuesday Weld or Ann-Margret..”

“I think he’s just trying to pull one over on the public,” Gefsky said.

Sharon signed a seven-year contract, and Ransohoff took charge. Gefsky, a nice man, bowed out. At first she lived in complete fear of Ransohoff, and did as she was told. “She wouldn’t even eat a hamburger if he told her not to,” a friend from that period said. If Ransohoff said she was to appear on The Beverly Hillbillies disguised in a black wig, she appeared. If he told her to go on a moments notice to Big Sur, New York, London, she went. Off and on she studied acting.

Jeff Corey, one acting coach, said, “An incredibly beautiful girl, but a fragmented personality. I tried to get reactions out of her, though. Once I even gave her a stick, and said, ‘Hit me, do something, show emotion’ ..If you can’t tap who you are, you can never act.”

Charles Conrad, another acting teacher, said, “Such a beautiful girl, you would have thought she would have all the confidence in the world. But she had none.” Among her friends, however, she began to refer to herself as “sexy little me.”

Ransohoff tried to place Sharon in The Cincinnati Kid – his own movie – but failed when the director demanded Tuesday Weld. He packed her off to New York to study under the personal direction of Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio. “She was only with me a few weeks,” Strasberg said, “but I remember her. She was a beautiful girl.” In New York Sharon had a romance with a young French star, who offered her relief from her Texas style, Puritan upbringing. The actor was tall, dark and very nice. When they broke up, the actor bungled a suicide attempt.

Sharon continued to fear Ransohoff. Once, while driving at a high speed near Big Sur, she turned her car over four and a half times, but somehow managed to crawl out with only minor injuries. Her first thought was that Marty would be mad. The first picture he finally placed her in was his French made 13, in which she plays a chillingly beautiful, expressionless girl who goes about putting the hex on people. Completed many months ago, ’13’ still rests in the can waiting for a 1967 release date. Ransohoff flew Sharon back to Hollywood for her second film, Don’t Make Waves, in which she plays a beautiful, deadpan skydiver. Sharon’s first two directors were older men. Britishers – very polite, very nice and understanding with a novice actress.

And then Ransohoff began dickering with Roman Polanski, the Polish director living in London, to make a picture. Polanski, a tiny, baby-faced man whose explosive manner and Beatle-like appearance belie his much-admired skill as a maker of art films, wanted to do something with Ransohoff called The Vampire Killers, a spoof of horror movies. He wanted to play in it himself, and, as in all his movies, he wanted a beautiful girl in a supporting role.

“How about Sharon Tate?” Ransohoff said. “I was thinking more in terms of Jill St. John,” Polanski said.

At Ransohoff’s instigation, Sharon and Polanski had dinner together. He looked at her from time to time, but said nothing. On a second dinner date he was painfully silent once more. Real weirdo, she thought. What’s he waiting on? She found out shortly. Walking in London’s Eaton Square, he suddenly put a bear hug on her and they fell to the ground, Polanski on the bottom. Sharon clouted him and stormed off. “That’s the craziest nut I ever saw,” she said. “I’ll never work for him.”

But Polanski apologized, and they saw each other again. One night he took her to his apartment which had even less furniture than it has now and no electricity. He lit a candle and excused himself, flying upstairs to don a Frankenstein mask. He crept up behind her, raised his arms, and whinnied like a madman. Sharon turned and emitted a terrible scream. It took over an hour for her hysterical weeping to subside. Not long afterward Polanski informed Ransohoff that Sharon would do fine for The Vampire Killers. On the set he treated her as if they never saw each other at night. He cajoled, flattered, got angry – which ever worked – and never had lunch with her. During the nude bathtub scene, he snapped still pictures of her. Still enthusiastic, he had her pose all over the set in the altogether, and then sent the results to Playboy. She plays a gorgeous redhead in The Vampire Killers – and she shows

Roman Polanski walked into his apartment in a sharp blue blazer and high-gloss shoes, carrying a briefcase. He had a good-sized nose and searching, deep-set eyes, and he nodded briskly to Sharon. “A Barbara called,” she let out daintily. “Do you know who that could be?”

“A Barbara?” he called from the kitchen, out of sight. A pause. “You didn’t get any last name? Always get last names. I don’t know any Barbara that would be calling. Sharon, Sharon. There’s no liquor here. Always see to it that we have enough whisky. Can’t you do that?”

Sharon went on the phone to order some, worrying about which brands to specify. She didn’t want to be embarrassed by asking Roman – although he would certainly tell her. He knew the correct whiskey brands in London, the good pastrami places in Manhattan, and the right topless spots in Hollywood. He learned a country’s customs and its language in a couple of weeks. He took a bath now upstairs, calling down for Sharon to fetch him some tea. Later he descended the stairs in a cowboy outfit and boots, ready for dinner. Some movie friends had shown up, and he led the party on foot toward Alvaro’s restaurant.

At the restaurant Sharon basked in the eyes that roved over her. She listened big-eyed to Polanski explain the difference between the sun’s heat and that on earth, apropos of Truffaut’s Fahrenheit 451. The only trouble was that it was difficult to digest pasta in such a giddy atmosphere, and she complained of her stomach. After Polanski figured out how to work the waiter’s ballpoint pen, he signed the check.

In a dreamlike state, Sharon began slipping into her fox fur coat in the foyer. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a tall Englishman with a prep-school tie and large teeth popped up and put his arm around her. “Ummm, you have a sexy feel, love. Don’t we all love to touch you now..” She squirmed away.

Out on the street, she said, “Roman, a complete stranger began hugging me in there.”

“Yeah? Really?” A short distance away he suddenly spied a blond in fox fur who had the same duck walk that Sharon has. “Hey, there goes Sharon,” he said. “Let’s get her and put the two of them together!”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, her anger flashing. Another day, away from Sharon, Polanski said, “I’m trying to get her to be a little meaner, She’s too nice, and she doesn’t believe in her beauty. Once when I was very poor in Poland I had got some beautiful shoes, and I immediately became very ashamed of them. All my friends had plain, ordinary shoes, and I was embarrassed to walk in front of them. That’s how Sharon feels about her beauty. She’s embarrassed by it.”

Sharon has a quarter-inch scar under her left eye and one beside the eye, the result of accidents which she keeps having. As Polanski drove with her one night in London, meticulously keeping on the left in the custom of the land, an Englishman with a couple of pints under his belt hit him from the right. The only one hurt was Sharon, whose head bounced off the dashboard, spraying blood on slacks, boots and fur. An angry red wound appeared at the start of her scalp, and it will leave another whitish scar on her head. With blond hair combed down over her forehead to hide it, she skied at St. Moritz. And then she caught a jet for Hollywood because Ransohoff had called. She must redo a few scenes for Don’t Make Waves. She grumbled a little. She found she could grumble to Ransohoff now. She hated Hollywood, and she didn’t want to leave Polanski. Also, she hated to fly. She had to be drugged to endure it.

And then she appeared beside Ransohoff at La Scala restaurant in Beverly Hills. She had a black costume that looked more like a slip than a dress, and her blond head caught glints of movie-star light as she turned this way and that. “Oh, there’s David! David Hemmings. David, David!”

David Hemmings, who had been featured with her in 13 and had gone on to star in Antonioni’s Blow-Up waved. Other celebrities flicked glances her way, at each other, to the door to see what majesty might enter next. Occasionally they looked down at food or drink. The place was as crowded as Alvaro’s in London, the customers practically the same. Ransohoff wore an open-neck sport shirt and shapeless coat, and he talked business. “Listen, sweetie, I’m going to have to cut some stuff out of The Vampire Killers. Your spanking scene has got to go.”

“Oh, don’t do that. Why would you do that?” “Because it doesn’t move the story. The story has got to move. Bang, bang, bang. No American audience is going to sit still while Polanski indulges himself.”

“But Europeans make movies differently than Americans, ” she explained to the producer she once feared. “Blow-Up moved slowly. But wasn’t it a great film!”

“I’ll tell you something, baby. I didn’t like it. If I’d have seen it before the reviews, I’d have said it’d never make it. It’s not my kind of picture. I want to be told a story without all that hocus-pocus symbolism going on.”

“But that one scene, Marty. When the girl show’s her, ah –” (only Sharon said the Anglo-Saxon word). In Hollywood, New York and London they all talked now about Blow-Up, dwelling on that scene.

“Yeah, I got to hand it to the guy for that one.” Ransohoff said, chuckling. “He pulled a good one off there.”

“Oh, I want to do a complete nude scene,” she said. “Say you’ll let me!”

“OK, OK,” Ransohoff said, bored, looking toward the door. “Yes, yes.”

“Do it now. Don’t just say it.” Then Sharon got bored.

Early in the morning Sharon appeared before the camera at Malibu Beach, redoing a scene for Don’t Make Waves. The sun had a hard time getting through the wisps of fog, and strong klieg lights helped out. In a sequence with an undraped David Draper, “Mr. Universe”, Sharon stuck out her backside and shot out her front. Magically, a button or two came undone on her polka-dot blouse, and after close examination of camera angle, director Sandy Mackendrick decided to leave it that way. He gave Sharon guidance in rubbing mineral oil over Draper’s bare back, as the scene called for. “Treat him like a horse,” he said. “Pat him just as you would an animal. That’s the way..”

She lovingly went over Draper’s muscled back, and then went “ugh” when the camera ceased to roll. The scene was done over and over. In her tiny trailer dressing room, she took a break and smoked daintily. “I’m happier when I’m working,” she said. “I don’t have time to think to much that way.”

One thing to think about was a visit to her parent’s home in Palos Verdes Estates, an hour’s drive away. (Her father was stationed in Korea, her mother and two younger sisters were at home.) Driving to the house one night in a heavy seaside fog, she became quieter and quieter, her words less Anglo-Saxon. A passenger beside her remarked, as the car neared its destination, that the fog reminded him of snow. “You know what it looks like to me?” she said. “Vomit.”

Her mother – a pleasant, plump, dark-haired woman – turned Sharon’s face this way and that. “Have you had your blood count recently, honey? You look so pale to me.” What did she think of Sharon’s becoming a movie star? What did she think of Roman Polanski? “You know,” she said, in the voice of every middle-class American mother, “I don’t care – just as long as she’s happy.”

Back in Hollywood Sharon moved from hotel to hotel, from one friend’s home to another. She talked to Polanski by phone. (It embarrassed him to try to write letters in English because of his mistakes.) So many things were unresolved, shadowy. Ransohoff was sore at Polanski because Polanski had gone way over the budget on The Vampire Killers (“Very un-Hollywood of him,” a Filmways executive said; another only referred to him as “the little–.”); Polanski was mad at Ransohoff because Ransohoff was cutting away at his film and postponing its release in the States. (Ransohoff had also had difficulties with Tony Richardson, the English director, over the budget and the cutting of The Loved One.) “The thing is,” said Sharon, “that Roman is an artist.”

At night Sharon went to The Daisy, a private discotheque in Beverly Hills. She wore an aviator’s leather jacket, slacks, and tinted Ben Franklin glasses. Seated near the dance floor, she silently watched young actresses her age go through their gyrations. Suzanne Pleshette and Patty Duke did subdued turns; Linda Ann Evans, in a miniskirt, did a much more spirited fling. Carolyn Jones, who only yesterday had played the ingénue, now looked like a chaperone. Sharon gave Linda Ann Evans the once over and said, “I’ve worn a much shorter mini in London. That’s nothing.”

From another table a slim, bronzed young man with a pampered black hair ambled confidently past Tina Sinatra, Patty Duke, Suzanne Pleshette – and hovered over this strange blond beauty in an aviator’s leather jacket. He had the air of a football star in a small town high school, who was used to having his pick. He showed his beautiful white teeth and said, “Let’s dance.”

“No,” she said, “let’s not.”

He kept the smile on his face as he backed away. He was now another who had tried to bring Sharon Tate into a private fantasy – but he didn’t know that she had passed his type long ago.

She was going to fly to London and get engaged to Roman Polanski. Then she was going to fly back to star in Valley of the Dolls. Ransohoff was lending her to 20th Century-Fox to play a sexy bombshell who goes to Europe to star in nudie movies and who bewitches the world with her improbable lushness.

#sharontate #sharon tate #sixties #1960s #vintage #hollywood #old hollywood #1967 #sexy little me #john bowers #saturday evening post #article #cinema #fearless vampire killers #valley of the dolls #don't make waves #roman polanski #paul tate #fort macarthur

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athingthatwantsvirginia · 4 years

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Out of Nora Ephron

PART SEVENTEEN OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: mentions of parent death and family issues, one mention of vomit, we’ve made it to the swan episode my dudes, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 5.2K

Summary: In which Jess gets beaked in the eye and miscommunications follow.

Despite the chilly breeze, red blossoms lined the streets of Stars Hollow. Town square was fragrant and sweet, and Ella would have been lying if she said it didn’t lift her spirits. Though she wasn’t one to go all out for holidays, she wore heart-shaped earrings and a pinkish color on her lips. Valentine’s was not especially important in Stars Hollow, considering how many other times per year there was a celebration, but it received an adequate amount of fanfare. Her skin was perfumed with a gardenia spray her aunt had given her, and there was a slight skip in her step. It made her feel almost silly, to be excited for such a holiday. And she knew Jess wouldn’t care about it. She wasn’t expecting anything. But it was nice to for once not be lonely on Valentine’s.

She waltzed into the diner, trying to hide the smile which played on her lips. Miss Patty was seated at the table by the door, and called to Ella before she even had a chance to hang up her coat and bag. Glancing behind the counter, she found both Luke and Jess to be working reasonably well together, and decided they could spend a couple more minutes without her help. After school, she’d stayed behind to help her art teacher hang some of her works for the open gallery they were having on Friday night. Late was late, no matter by how long. And she’d told Jess to explain it to Luke. The diner was rarely busy at three in the afternoon on a Wednesday anyway. She wasn’t sweating it as she might have in the past.

“Hi, Patty,” she said, leaning down to let the woman kiss her cheek. Ella didn’t even mind the red kiss-mark she knew would be standing out on her freckled skin. Fiddling with her necklace, she sat down across from Miss Patty.

Patty smiled widely at the girl. “Hello, darling, how are you? How’s that man of yours?”

Blushing, Ella stole a glance at Jess, who was ringing up a customer. She wanted to roll her eyes at herself. “Fine. Everything’s fine. What about you? You’ve gotta have some fish on a hook for tonight? That’s what my grandma used to say.”

“You truly learned from the best,” Patty laughed, gesturing with her arm, draped in dark red fabric. “Oh, I do. José and I have some reservations. And then I’ll have him for dessert.”

Hiding her face in her hands, Ella chuckled. If they were in the dance studio, she wouldn’t have felt so naked. But the diner? There was some strange instinct in her to keep a semblance of professionalism, even though most of the townspeople had bore witness to her vomiting down her front at the summer carnival when she was three. Old habits die hard.

Raising her head to Miss Patty again, she wished her cheeks would cool. “Well, I hope you have a nice night. But, I’m off to sweep those chimneys now. Just let me know if you need me to fill in at all for the spring recitals.”

Patty nodded, offering the girl one last smile, and Ella made to leave. “You make sure Jess treats you tonight. All the keepers do.”

Saying nothing else, Ella smiled back and was still giggling when she went behind the counter. Tying her apron around her hips, she greeted Luke and Jess with a nod of her head. Immediately, Luke furrowed his brows at her.

“What’s got you so happy?” he asked.

She snorted a laugh. “I don’t know. What’s with your Fred Mertz impression?”

“Who?” Luke looked to her blankly.

“I Love Lucy,” Jess chimed in, refilling mugs of coffee.

Ella smirked at Jess, knowing about his odd love of old black-and-white TV. Then, she turned back to her boss. “Don’t you have a lady friend? I figured you’d be at least a little more chipper.”

Luke grimaced. “Don’t call Nicole my lady friend.”

She raised her hands in mock surrender. “Fine. White flag. Continue with the curmudgeonry.”

Only rolling his eyes, Luke stepped around her to go take some orders. Sometimes he wondered how he didn’t see the relationship between Ella and his nephew brewing earlier. When Ella came back out from the back, her hands freshly washed, Jess laced an arm around her waist and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. Then, he licked his thumb and wiped Miss Patty’s red lipstick off her cheek.

Ella scrunched up her nose and groaned playfully. “More Jess spit.”

Jess smirked. “Would you rather Luke ream you for not looking work-appropriate?”

Scoffing, she turned and leaned back against the counter so she could face him. “Wow, my hero,” she deadpanned.

“I got you something,” he said, his smile turning more genuine.

“For a Hallmark holiday?” she asked, confusion painting her face, though a smirk threatened to cross her lips.

He rolled his eyes. “You’d be surprised, Daria. The lake after work?”

“You have no concept of weather. It’s gonna be freezing,” she said.

“I like to live dangerously. Haven’t you heard?”

“Whatever, James Dean. Sounds like a plan. I got you something too.”

. . .

Sitting cross-legged, Ella shivered. She certainly appreciated the poetic return to the spot where they’d decided to try going out, but it was still a Connecticut February. Their breath came out in whitish clouds. Icy breezes blew by them, smelling clean and fresh and cold. She heard geese fly overhead, and almost laughed. Shouldn’t they be south? The light had long since waned to blue darkness, but the moonlight reflected off the water and onto their faces. Ella’s mind wandered to the schools of fish below, the imagined mermaids. The taste of apple pastries, from a basket made by Miss Patty, filled her mouth, and smiled. Jess’s voice brought her back to her current reality, when they sat shoulder-to-shoulder, fingers entwined.

“Where’d you go, Stevens?” he asked, watching her blink the fantasy from her eyes.

Clearing her throat, she looked over at him and sniffed. “The past. Back when we weren’t developing hypothermia.”

He rolled his eyes. “What a talent for exaggeration.”

She snorted a laugh, then reached over to rummage through her shoulder bag. “Alright, jackass, let’s end the suspense, shall we?”

Smirking, he watched as she turned back around, a book in her hands. It was hardly a surprise, but his expression turned fond as he took it from her. He recognized the cover: Desolation Angels by Jack Kerouac.

“I can’t believe you don’t have this one,” she said, gesturing to the book. “Given that your Jack Kerouac fetish pretty much equals my Stevie Nicks fetish. I think you should look inside.”

“Oh, should I?” he teased, eyebrows raised.

“I have a hunch that you should.”

Chuckling, he opened up the cover, and found a chunk of her messy cursive, dark ink against the weathered yellow page.

Something else for my James Dean to sulk with.

And below, he found a few poems, which he recognized as Dickinson from the many long dashes. He furrowed his brows slightly, and tilted his head at her in askance.

“From Final Harvest. They’re the ones you put notes beside, conceding that I was right about Emily Dickinson,” she explained, smile wide.

Jess scoffed. “A gentle reminder of your superior tastes?”

She shook her head. “No, just the ones that make me think of you now.”

His heart started to beat faster against his ribs, and he swallowed down the feelings which rose in his throat. Before she could notice his scarlet blush in the dim light, he put a hand to her cheek and kissed her softly.

“Thank you,” he whispered when he pulled away.

“You’re welcome, Jess,” she replied, tucking a strand of hair which had fallen from her low bun behind her ear. A tiny smile on her face, she fiddled with one of her heart earrings.

He cleared his throat in the comfortable silence, reaching a hand in the inside pocket of his jacket. Averting his gaze, he handed her a modest set of charcoals, bought from the arts store three days earlier. In spite of himself, he felt nerves build up within him. He didn’t see his gift standing up to hers at all.

A wide grin blossomed on her face, taking them from him gently, as though they were fragile. “Jess, this is fucking awesome! I’ve never had charcoals before!”

He shrugged humbly, a small smirk on his face. “I just figured...those might smudge a little better than your regular pencils. Or...not smudge? Shade? I don’t really know the names but-”

Placing a cold hand on the back of his neck, she effectively cut him off. She bit back a laugh; it was still rare to see him flustered. “Jess. I love them. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Kissing, they smiled against each other’s lips, and pulled away laughing.

Ella smiled down at the charcoals again. “I can make my drawings even scarier now.”

“That’s the goal, huh?” he asked.

“Always.”

“Will I get to see some horror movie stuff at the gallery walk on Friday or did the school censor you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, they let me have my artistic freedom.”

“Good. I can’t wait to see.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Mariano.”

“Too late,” he smirked, kissing her again. Just as the kiss deepened, a shiver rolled through her and she pulled away, eager to make out in the comfort of her own bedroom.

“C’mon, let’s go someplace above freezing. Look at us, right out of a Nora Ephron movie,” Ella teased as she stood up, holding a hand out to him.

He rolled his eyes, scoffing self-consciously as he grabbed her hand. “I never should’ve let that slip.”

“Can’t turn back now, Mariano.”

. . .

The key on her necklace was cold against her flushed skin. Fluorescent lights flickered above her, as she watched family and friends crowded around the works in the hallway. All of a sudden, she wished she could be serving coffee at the diner, comfortable in her apron. Instead, she stood before three of her paintings, and two of her drawings. They weren’t anything to write home about, and she was acutely aware of it. Her palms were sweating, and she was lost in her own thoughts when the art teacher, Ms. Menken, came up next to her. She was a tall, kind woman with black spiral curls and large brown eyes. Ella had been in her class all four years of high school, sometimes ate lunch in her room, and spent every spare moment she had working on her projects. It was her hiding place, her safe space, during school hours. She was never as comfortable at school as she was in the diner, not even in the art room, but it was a haven of sorts.

“Have they shown up yet?” Ms. Menken asked, dressed in all paisley and jewel tones. She looked like she would fit in much better in San Francisco.

Ella shook her head, leaning back against the white cinderblock wall. “No. I mean...my dad and Fiona...who knows? She said she wanted to ‘support me.’ And Adam could probably take it or leave it. My boyfriend should be here soon, though.”

Ms. Menken nodded, a doubtful glint in her eye. “Right. Mr. Mariano.”

Sighing, Ella ran a hand through her hair. “He’s a good person.”

A few more suspicious words were exchanged before Ms. Menken went on her way, Ella insisting she go mingle with the students whose families had already arrived. Jess was hardly a superstar among the Stars Hollow High faculty and staff, even the cooler members. Again, she stood alone, biting at her nails and looking over her shoulder at the artworks. Her favorite was a painting of a ghost, adorned with hydrangeas. It was the only one she’d wanted to put up, but Ms. Menken had encouraged her to flesh out the display a bit. By her watch’s time, it was half past seven when her father, Fiona, and Adam walked through the big swinging door. She couldn’t hide the look of surprise on her face. The show was set to be over at eight, and there was still no sign of Jess.

He’d seemed so excited to come, promised he’d show by half past six, during his break from the diner. She’d stood. She’d waited for Jess. And soon she felt silly, angry at herself for wanting him to see it. To be proud of her. Ella sighed as her family approached. At least they had come. Maybe they would feel like enough, no matter how much Jess was the only person she truly wanted there.

“Ellie,” her father said, nodding slightly. He pulled her in for a rigid hug, which she reciprocated coldly.

Fiona’s hug was far more affectionate, longer, with an added kiss on the cheek. It made Ella want to grimace, but she managed a smile at the woman, her new stepmother who was always trying so hard. Over the course of the last month, Ella had been attempting to make an effort with her, no matter how unpleasant it was.

Adam had already wandered off down the hall, to take a look at the array of amateur art. He squinted at the abstract pieces through his thick glasses, analytical as ever. With Noah off to get a degree in history, and Ella probably bound for something humble in the humanities, Adam was the only Stevens sibling destined to make any real money. He was the one with the mathematical brain and boundless potential; he could end up as anything from an accountant to a rocket scientist.

“Thanks for coming, guys,” she said, swallowing down the storm of emotions raging on the sight of their arrival.

“We wouldn’t miss it, Ella,” Fiona said, beaming. The woman stepped back to view the paintings and drawings hanging on the wall. Each had her trademark mixture of flora and horror, and Ella could practically see Fiona fighting off her look of appall. She was the kind of woman who never wanted to watch sad movies, never spoke on taboo subjects, never faced a state of balanced reality.

Her father stood quietly, his hands in his pockets, saying nothing. But the look in his eyes was telling. Ella knew it hadn’t been his idea to come. But she thought she saw the tiniest bit of pride on his face. In all her life, she thought she’d never known exactly what her father was thinking. And probably never would.

Five minutes of awkward conversation passed slowly, Ella’s eyes flitting to the door every so often. Eventually, Jess blew in, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and his gaze trained on the floor. A relieved smile crossed Ella’s face, but it fell instantly when he approached and lifted his head to her. His left eye was bruised deep purples and blues, scabbed at the edges.

“Hi,” he said flatly as he came closer to her, gaze roaming over her work. “Jesus, Stevens, these are...amazing.”

“Young man,” Ella’s father began, dark brows furrowing, “what exactly happened with your face?”

“It looks terrible,” Fiona observed, disgust flashing across her features.

Jess shrugged, nonchalant, and only went back to the art. Had her parents not been there, he would’ve been able to express what he felt. How seeing her paintings, alive with color, and her drawings, dark with the pain she felt, brightened up his shitty day so instantly. But there were too many eyes on him, his tongue tied with sheepishness. And he certainly didn’t want to talk about what had happened to his eye.

Ella huffed out a breath in exasperation, waiting for an answer, but it never came. Her father took a step forward, a face she recognized. And the last thing she wanted was for him to make a scene at the show. Everyone already talked about her dead mother, she didn’t need them to know about her hothead father too. She didn’t care what they thought, but she certainly didn’t want to be the subject of their speculation. Instead, she put herself between her father and her boyfriend. She flashed a plastic smile at her father and Fiona, dragging Jess down the hall and into the art room by the sleeve of his jean jacket.

“An accident at the diner today. Nothing major!” she called, hoping they bought it. “Back in one second!”

Luckily, there was no one else in the art room. Only the eyes of the figures painted across the walls, papers lining every available surface. She pulled him in by the first table, where she usually sat and worked. Dried paint covered all inches of the light, worn wood.

“What the hell?” she demanded, arms crossed over her black floral dress. The one she’d put on special. Still casual enough for school, but dressy nonetheless. And she’d worn her good red lipstick. No matter how nervous she was about showing off her work, she’d still had some sort of foolish excitement swelling inside her.

Jess sighed heavily. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Oh, you don’t?” she asked, eyebrows raised angrily.

He refused to look her in the eye. “No, I don’t. Look, I’ve already had a lousy day-”

“Really? So have I. I’ve been waiting. You said you’d be here by six-thirty,” she interrupted.

Running a hand over his mouth, Jess shook his head softly. “Elle, I’m sorry. Something came up. But can’t I just go back out there? I didn’t get to-”

“No.”

“No?”

“Jess,” she said, dropping her eyes to her boots, “my dad isn’t gonna get off your back with your eye like that. He’s gonna end up screaming, you’ll end up screaming back, and I don’t think either of us wants to give all the other families free dinner theater.”

Jaw set tightly, he crossed his own arms, mirroring her defensive stance. “You want me to go?”

“Unless you tell me what happened.”

“Didn’t realize you needed to know every detail of my day, Nancy Drew,” he snapped.

She shook her head. “Jesus, Jess. That looks like it hurts. Now’s not the time for that Holden Caulfield bullshit. I’m your girlfriend. Just tell me.”

He was silent, eyes narrowed in frustration.

“Fine. Fuck it. Just go,” she yelled, gesturing in annoyance. Her cheeks were flushed red, and a crease formed between her brows. Fire burned in her hazel eyes. “I was waiting for you, Jess.”

And with that, she stormed out the door. Jess stood with his hands in his pockets, face drawn in shame and dejection.

. . .

Instead of biting her thumbnail, an attempt to ward off old habits, she chewed at the eraser of her pencil. Jess was on dish duty, but there was a lull in the customers around mid-morning and she knew he would reappear in the front soon enough. Saturday was danish day, but they were all gone by ten. Rory and Lorelai had just popped in with armfulls of shopping bags. Ella sketched mindlessly as she made conversation with the two of them, pointedly ignoring most of the business around her. Even Luke, not known for his emotional intelligence, could sense the tension in the air. Her page was covered with vampire bats and women with bites on their necks. She’d caught a midnight showing of The Lost Boys the night before.

“So, Bender’s not talking?” Lorelai asked, commiserating.

Sighing through her nose angrily, Ella nodded. “Apparently, I’m just not worthy of such information from Mr. Hyde.”

“Well, maybe it’s finally time for our Thelma and Louise bit?” Rory offered, sipping from her steaming mug.

Ella tried to smile weakly. “I wish. But I’m working a double today.”

Lorelai faked a gag. “My condolences.”

“Damn the man,” Ella said, shaking her head tiredly.

Soon, Rory and Lorelai were back to their conversation of weekend plans and left with final sympathetic looks at her. Ella went on drawing, but eventually the tip of her pencil broke off with the intensity of her work. Sighing heavily, she tossed the pencil behind her and snapped the sketchbook shut.

“Careful, Mickey Mantle. You’ll take someone’s eye out,” Jess snapped as he came around behind her, grabbing his book and sitting on his stool.

She groaned under her breath. “Shove it, jackass.”

“Eloquent.”

Rolling her eyes, Ella crossed her arms over her chest and turned to face him. “Right back at ya. What a chatty fucking Kathy.”

At that moment, Luke stepped in, having overheard snippets of the interaction warily as he helped a customer check out. His breathing was huffy as he spoke to them, hands on his hips.

“Alright, Ella, on break. Now.”

Chewing on her bottom lip, she unlaced her apron and threw it over the hook in the doorway of the kitchen. “Okay. Fine. Maybe talk some sense into Jake LaMotta, formerly known as your nephew!”

“LaMotta?” Luke asked, but Ella was already donning her coat and bag.

Jess rolled his eyes, not looking up from his book. “Raging Bull.”

Luke muttered something under his breath, then grabbed Jess by the collar and pulled him into the stock room. “Alright, Petey the Dog, when did you get in a fight with Dean?”

. . .

Water sloshed against the sides of the boat as Jess and Luke floated along Larson’s Lake. Lying in wait for the swan which had beaked him in the eye a night earlier, Jess held a ladle tight in his hand. The air smelled sickly sweet with the early-blooming flowers. The last couple days had gotten above freezing, and the flowers were making a premature appearance. A cold front would roll in soon enough, and the flora would die all over again. In the back of his mind, Jess thought it would be something Ella would read a poem about, draw a picture of.

“So, how’d Jake react to your eye last night?” Luke asked, breaking the silence.

Jess sighed. “Not great, Doctor Phil.”

“Guess it wasn’t so good before, anyway.”

“She told him some accident happened at the diner. I don’t know.” Jess shrugged, gaze roaming over the greenish water.

Nodding, Luke still didn’t look away from his nephew. “You know shutting her out isn’t gonna help, right?”

Jess said nothing, a scowl twisting his features.

But still, Luke went on. “Keeping things from her is pointless. It’s only gonna drive her away.”

“Didn’t wanna talk.”

Luke frowned at Jess’s flat tone of voice. “Look, when you’re with Ella, it’s all the way. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she can hold a grudge like it’s her job.”

Snorting bitterly, Jess still didn’t look over.

“With this girl, it’s all or nothing, do or die. Hiding things will get you nowhere,” Luke continued. “And she doesn’t need you. She picked you.”

Jess scoffed in exasperation. “God knows why.”

“She knows. That’s all that matters,” Luke said. “If you really want her, you’ll swallow your pride.”

. . .

She had to admit, the charcoals were wonderful, no matter how pissed she was at Jess. Shadowy figures covered the pages of her sketchbook, black smudges littering her small desk. Lavender candles perfumed her air, and she shut out the rest of the world, Lou Reed crooning through the speakers of her record player. Her hair was damp from a shower after her shift, fragrant with shampoo. The rest of the day was only marginally better than the beginning. When she got back from break, Jess hadn’t been there, hadn’t shown up by the time she got let off. Luke wouldn’t say much, but she wasn’t surprised. Though she tried not to let her mind wander into dramatic territory, there was still fear coursing through her. Anything was possible. Maybe Jess would pick up and leave again? It had been their first big disagreement, and though it wasn’t nearly as bad as a car accident, Jess still had a loose canon history. And Ella had a history of being left in the afterboom, not just by Jess.

At first, she thought the branches of the oak tree were blowing up against her window in the late winter wind. But, as the small dinks continued to sound, she sighed, wiped her hands free of the charcoal on a wet washcloth on the desk, and got up to see what it was. It wouldn’t have been the only time a bird had come up and started pecking against the window, begging to come in. She’d only obliged once as a child before learning her lesson. Instead, she found Jess, sullenly mysterious as always as he threw pebbles from the gravel driveway against her window pane.

Biting back a chuckle, she opened the window and leaned out. “Y’know this is a one-story house. Doesn’t quite have the same Shakespearean effect as it would if I lived in an upstairs.”

He shrugged, a weak smirk on his lips. “I tried.”

A long moment passed, a crease between Ella’s brows. Wind whistled past them and she saw Jess hunch his shoulders to shield against it. With a final sigh, she stepped back from the window and called to him. “Alright, Romeo. If you’re coming in, come in.”

Nodding, he hoisted himself up and through the window. She could feel the scar on his hand when he grabbed her own for support.

“You really think I’m a Romeo?” he asked breathlessly, stalling as he shut the window.

She crossed her arms, let a little smile form. “In all reality, you’re a Mercutio, but I’ll give you Romeo tonight for the pebbles on the window bit.”

“Well, I appreciate that.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He sighed heavily, standing near the window with hands in his pockets. Eyebrows raised expectantly and arms crossed, Ella waited.

“Alright, I’ll tell you what happened,” he said, avoiding her gaze, “but only if you promise not to laugh.”

She nodded gravely, confused but not letting it show. “Sure. I promise. Cross my heart.”

Sighing again, he finally looked at her. She could see his bruise had yellowed slightly, but was still mostly just dark and angry. Jess ran a hand over his mouth once before he spoke, hesitant. “I was throwing a football with a buddy and he-”

“Jess, I’m gonna stop you right there,” she said, putting a hand up. “I thought you were gonna tell me the truth?”

“That is the truth!” he insisted, suddenly defensive.

Ella scoffed. “No, it’s not. You’d never play football. I doubt you’ve spent more than two minutes with a football in your hands your whole life. And there’s no one in Stars Hollow you’d throw a football with, and certainly no one who you’d call a ‘buddy.’”

His shoulders sagged in defeat, and he shook his head. He heard Luke’s voice in his head. Swallowing dryly, he rubbed at his mouth again.

“Alright, fine, you know Larson’s dock?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I was walking by there on my way to the art show and...I got attacked by a swan.”

She tilted her head, eyebrows knitting together. “What?”

“It hangs out there, and it saw me walking by, minding my own business and it just...beaked me! Right in the eye!” he exclaimed finally, exasperated, as though choking out the words pained him. Embarrassment crept hotly up his neck and face.

There was a long moment of silence, Ella processing the words in her head. Once, then twice, she opened her mouth to speak. She chewed on her bottom lip. Then, she took a couple slow steps toward him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Initially, he didn’t react. But, soon, his own arms laced around her waist and they held each other in a tight embrace for what felt like several minutes. His words were muffled into her shoulder when he finally spoke, and Ella couldn’t quite make them out.

She pulled away from him, hands placed gently on his shoulders. “What’s that?”

“When you saw my eye, you were the only one who didn’t immediately assume I got in a fight with Dean.” He let his gaze linger on her for a long moment, watching a wide smirk bloom on her face.

Ella shrugged. “Well, when I think Jess Mariano, I’m much more likely to think ‘lover’ than ‘fighter.’”

“You are?”

“I am,” she replied, nodding, a smile still present.

“Hey, you promised no laughing,” he told her pointedly, seeing her amused expression.

“I’m not! I’m smiling. I never promised no smiling.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully but said nothing more.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, sheepish once again. “I’m really sorry for being late to the art show. I didn’t know what to do about my eye and I knew your dad might come. And I know you were so excited and I was so excited to see your name up there-”

“It’s okay, honey,” she said, shaking her head to dismiss his worry.

Tension released from his muscles, and a smirk crossed his lips. “You’re the ‘honey’ here, Stevens.”

Again, she shook her head. “Not tonight. This thing of ours is a two-way street.”

Ella brought a hand to the side of his face, careful to avoid the bruising, and he leaned into it. A crease of concern formed between her eyebrows once again.

“Must hurt like hell, Mariano,” she muttered, assessing the injury up close for the first time.

“Yeah,” he sighed, giving a teasing pout.

“Bet I could make it feel better,” she said quietly.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, eyebrows shooting up.

Ella nodded, then brought him closer to place a gingerly kiss on his purpled skin. He could barely feel it, her soft lips light as a feather. Then, she went on to kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, everywhere but his mouth.

“Think you’re missing a spot,” he told her, wicked smirk returning.

“Ah, of course,” she said, then kissed him on the lips deeply.

His hands went to her hips, and she felt herself grow light headed with pleasure, sparks of joy making her entire being buzz. Each time she kissed Jess, a real kiss, she could feel it everywhere. And before meeting him, she’d thought ‘weak in the knees’ was an exaggeration. Not so. A rustle of activity in the house, voices, a TV turning on in the living room, her brother’s door shutting, brought her back to the present moment. They separated and Jess couldn’t help the look of disappointment on his face. Ella chuckled, then went to tug on her boots.

“To be continued,” she assured him. “For now, let's go to the apartment. Rent some Empire Records perhaps?”

Jess nodded, his heart returning to a normal speed. On the way over, he’d felt nauseous with nerves. The sight of her smile was finally calming his body and his mind down. “Only if you do the dance moves with them.”

She rolled her eyes, picking up her coat from where she’d tossed over the back of her desk chair earlier. “You’re already hurt. And you and I both know my moves could be lethal.”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

#jess mariano au #jess mariano fanfiction #jess mariano imagines #jess #mariano #jess mariano #gilmore girls #gilmore girls fanfiction #gilmore girls au #gilmore girls imagines #luke danes #jess mariano x oc #original character #original character stories

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victorluvsalice · 5 years

Text

AU Thursday: Londerland Bloodlines -- More Than Blood

More fic for you as I take a crack at figuring out the whole Londerland Bloodlines timeline/quest results thing (the wiki claims this whole game takes place over 11 nights?! Yeah, noooooo). This snippet takes place between the retrieval of the sarcophagus from the Giovanni and Victor's nightmare that leads to Alice trying to get everyone out of L.A. before she's sent up against the Sabbat by LaCroix. Everyone's settled into a routine now that Lizzie, Emily, and Bonejangles/Sam are free of the Giovanni -- Lizzie and Sam are cautiously trying out this "relationship" thing, and Emily has officially joined the group of "people Victor is allowed to date without it being called cheating." Surrounded by various forms of loved ones, Alice is happier than she's been in quite a long time. . .

At least, while she's not thinking about how, eventually, Victor and Victoria are going to grow old and die. Yeah, the problem with being happy is, she wants things to stay happy forever. . .and that means wanting Victor (and Victoria, and Emily, but -- one thing at a time) to stay with her forever. And since she won't Embrace him, that means the blood bond. . .but obviously she's not exactly keen on that either. So she goes to someone whom she's been previously told she can trust, and who might have a better view on the whole subject that she does. . .

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"So, what brings you to mine if you ain't looking for the goods?"

Alice perched herself on the arm of the couch, idly twisting her hands into knots (and trying to ignore the faint scent of blood clinging to the fabric – surely that should have gone by now!). "I – I have it on some authority that I can trust you," she said, remembering Rosa and her beach riddles ("The man on the couch for sure. . ."). "And the nature of my question means I can't quiz just anyone. I don't want to ask the other vampires – the ones who haven't already made their opinions known, anyway. They've got a different view of the whole mess. And Knox – he's nice enough, but he's got stars in his eyes about his particular situation. Can't see a single bad thing about it. And he and Bertram tried to play me once, so. . ." She shrugged, looking up at Mercurio. "You, I might be able to coax a straight answer out of."

Mercurio raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Guessin' this is about you and Victor, then?"

Alice nodded. "Our relationship, as it stands." She tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling. "You know that I'm trying to break him of his bond to me. Send him back to a normal life."

"Yeah, I heard. Victor ain't exactly happy about it."

"I'm aware." Alice sucked in a breath out of old habits. "And I don't – I don't particularly want him to go. He – he's so sweet, and kind, and creative. . ." Her fingers tightened on her jeans. "But that's why he has to go. I can't condemn him to follow me around like a puppy the rest of his days. He deserves to go back to being an ordinary human. To forget this awful world of eternal night and manipulative monsters exists. To have the veil raised once more so he can go off and fall in love and get married and raise a family and – and g-grow old and. . .and. . ."

Her voice cracked, failing her. She wiped desperately at her eyes, well aware she probably looked hysterical (in multiple senses – ugh, why was it she cried blood?!) but unable to stop herself. Damn it, why did she always let her emotions run away with her like this? Why couldn't she look at this with the same cold logic that bastard Strauss might? It was right to let him go! To encourage him to head off with Victoria (and probably Emily too, at this point, though sending off either of the girls made her insides knot up too – argh, Alice, one relationship issue at a time!) and enjoy those sunny days she no longer could! To have the mortal life she'd been denied! She had Lizzie now – she could give him up!

"Could you?" the Queen whispered, a tentacle curling around Alice's shoulders. "Could you stand to rise in the evenings and not see his smile? Could you come home to your haven and not miss his warmth on your couch? Could you watch him go and know that, one day, he won't walk this earth anymore? That you are sending him, slowly but surely, to his death?" Her voice softened, became desperate. "My king is gone – don't throw away yours!"

"Hey. Hey." Mercurio leaned over her, biting his lip as he pressed a handkerchief into her hand. "Relax, okay? Come on. I don't do well with crying ladies."

"Neither do I," Alice choked out, sitting up straight. She scrubbed the blood off her cheeks, struggling to master herself. "I just – I know it's the right thing. I know I shouldn't keep him. But then I look at him, and I see him lying in a hospital bed, old and decrepit, struggling for every breath. . .all alone again, just like I found him, only this time he's not getting any reprieve. . ." She pressed her face into the cloth, shaking her head. "He's made this dark parody of an existence so much brighter and warmer, brought so much good into my life, and I don't want to lose him. But I – I can't make myself Embrace him, because – how can I say I love him and yet take the sun away from him? Not to mention LaCroix would turn us both to dust in a heartbeat. . .and if I – I feed his addiction, give in and keep him as my ghoul. . ." She squeezed the bridge of her nose. "Back in England, I was under the care of a man who twisted my mind and memories in an attempt to make me his perfect doll. He thought nothing of destroying the wills of others – of children – in the name of making a profit. He came dangerously close to destroying me and all I am. And now I'm at the mercy of a prince who can force me to obey his commands with a mere glance. My thoughts no longer my own unless I jump when he says to jump. So when Bertram told me what vampire blood does to a person. . ." She let her head flop onto her chest. "Victor says he loves me. But is that the truth, or just my lingering vitae pulling words from his mouth? And if I give him more – bond him for good – don't I destroy everything he is? Replace him with something who will worship my veins, but never really care for me?" A tear trickled down her cheek. "Will I love just a – a puppet, and not the man?"

There was a long and exceedingly awkward silence. "Shit," Mercurio said at last. "You really ain't like other vampires."

Alice's lips twitched upward. "I'll take that as a compliment." She wiped up the tear and licked it off her finger, before patting her face clean. "So – yes. I need your opinion, as a long-time ghoul. Wonderland actually suggested I come to you, in fact. 'The fleet-footed god shall speak the truths you seek,' as Cheshire put it."

Mercurio snorted. "Cheshire's kind of flowery, ain't he?"

"Oh, that's not even him at his worst. . ." She sighed, then looked Mercurio straight in the eye. "I'm open to any advice you can give me. Do your worst."

"Right." Mercurio stepped back. "You want my advice? You take that boy and you make him yours." He held up a finger, forestalling any argument. "And I'll tell you why – 'cause first off, no, he ain't saying he loves you just 'cause he got a taste of your veins. You know how I know this?" He pointed at her. "'Cause I've been blood-bonded to LaCroix for years now – and I still think he's a prissy little bitch. Would do anything for him – loyalty's written in blood – but damn he can be an asshole."

Alice blinked. Blinked again. He – she glanced at Cheshire, who simply grinned back at her, as smug as he'd ever been (and that was very smug). "I – from what Bertram said–"

"Oh, the Nossie wasn't lying," Mercurio cut in. "I ain't saying my free will ain't taken a beating. I love that prissy little bitch. Wouldn't raise a hand against him. He gives me orders, I jump through hoops to get 'em done. That Astrolite thing you saved my ass on? Part of me didn't want him to find out just because I knew he'd be disappointed, and that tore me up inside worse than those fuckers up at the cabin did. I'd do anything to keep in his good books and keep getting my monthly supply." He held up his point-making finger. "But I got no illusions about the guy either. I'm all for the Camarilla, but I get why the Anarchs ain't if he's what they see of it. He's stuck-up, snotty, and will do whatever it takes to get more power, Masquerade and elders and all that be damned. And I know I've only got a good thing going with him as long as I'm useful. Minute I fuck up and he hears about it – that gorilla of his is gonna make sure I never fuck up again. And shit, the speeches. . ." Mercurio almost rolled his eyes right out of his head. "I'll put up with whatever he dishes out to get my blood, but I'm really glad he's got me posted out here instead of living in his bloody tower."

"There are reasons I still pay Trip to keep my haven here unoccupied," Alice agreed, chewing her lower lip. "So. . .you're bonded to him. . .but you don't like him?"

"Basically," Mercurio nodded. "Like I said, I'll do whatever he asks while he's still supplying me. If that ever dries up though. . .well, it'll hurt, I'll bitch and moan about it, but I think I could push through and get myself a new backer. Strauss probably wouldn't mind having a guy who was useful. It's all about getting that next fix." He tapped his fingers against his leg. "Your Victor, though? It's more than that. You gave him elder blood – the good stuff – and he said that he preferred yours. He shouldn't be that picky on one drink. I mean, yeah, maybe you got super-duper addictive blood. . .but from Fish?" He scoffed. "Yeah, doubt that. And that ain't even getting into how he'll go on and on about you if you let him. And it's not your blood he's talking about – it's your smile, or your eyes, or your sense of humor. It's you. He loves you."

Alice's undead heart fluttered, recalling soft looks and shy smiles across the couch. "You're certain?"

"I've been around the block a few times now – you see me getting that moony over LaCroix?" Mercurio retorted, smirking. "Hell, even Knox don't get like that, and he's all about his 'nasty dude.' What he feels for you is real, Alice. If you go the full three drinks, he ain't gonna act any different."

Alice couldn't help a frown. "You don't know that for sure."

"Maybe not, but I think I can take a pretty solid guess," Mercurio retorted. "And, if the mushy stuff ain't gonna convince ya, let me remind ya – your boy? Son of one of the richest guys in the world. Heir to a cannery empire worth billions. You don't want him? Another vampire will. And they ain't gonna care about him being sweet and kind and all that. They're just gonna see the dollar signs."

A brief, vivid image of Victor standing by LaCroix, blank-eyed and stiff, shot through Alice's brain. "Pound signs, technically," she said to distract herself from the rush of horror.

"Whichever – that'll be all they want. A Ventrue might want the business, a Toreador rich arm candy, a Nosferatu a laugh as they drain the bank accounts. . .they'll use him up and then throw him on the side of the road. Like I said, you're weird for a vampire. Most of them don't give a shit about how ghouls feel." He gave her a significant look. "Much less go head over heels for one."

"I gathered," Alice said, now trying to ignore the flowers blooming all over the walls of the apartment. Cheshire leaned up against her, purring – she resisted the dual urges to either push him away or scratch him behind the ears. "Thank you, Mercurio."

"No problem – you covered my ass for LaCroix, I can stop you being all stupid noble and lettin' your dream boy go," Mercurio replied, cracking a smile. "Besides, look at it from his point of view. Who wants to go back to being just plain old human after you've got a taste of the good stuff? I know I don't."

"To be fair, in your case, that might just be simple vanity," Alice teased, smirking. "You did mention before that you were getting into your sixties."

"Hey – which one of us was the one complainin' they didn't want their ghoul to get old?"

Alice snickered. "Okay, fair enough." She slipped her hand into her pocket. "All right – now that we've gotten that out of the way, I suppose I should pick up some more ammo while I'm here. Do you have any for the McLusky hanging around?"

"Now we're back in business." Mercurio clapped his hands. "Yes I do – and hey, you're gonna want a look at this beauty I snagged the other night. . ."

#londerland bloodlines #fanfic #yeah I know my original plan was that she doesn't break until after the events of the game #but when I started looking at the timeline I was like #'. . .okay if she doesn't go ahead and give him her blood earlier #he's not going to be a ghoul at all'#I mean I got around that somewhat with her giving him some of the vampire blood she picks up around the game #but still #once I figure out a more set timeline this'll probably be easier #it CAN'T be eleven nights because that only takes into account the main quests #and even those I don't think are spaced out correctly #I'm pretty sure dealing with Therese and Jeannette is a multiple-night business #as well as some of the other quests #I'm actually planning on a Malk playthrough starting this summer #I'm hoping going through the game again while trying my best to mimic what I think Alice would do will help #I mean I already have a Victor run of Fallout 4 going soooo #queued

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